Wasteland Warlords: Chapter 5 - Grind and Shine

The Jaegers spent the next six weeks grinding out kills day in and day out, just like clockwork. Sometimes they went with the Wildford brothers. Twice other freelancers partied up with them, and they cleared the first couple levels of small dungeons—the Home Depot one day and what used to be a Taco Bell another. But mostly, they headed out, just the three of them. One thing that Clay quickly discovered was that most Camp Liberty citizens—even the hard-charging Triple S contractors—only ventured outside the wire once or maybe twice a week, and that was if they were overly ambitious.

People out this way made enough to get by and not much more than that. The majority of the old weeds only went out when they were running critically low on beer money. They spent the rest of their days lounging around the Yacht Club, drinking too much, telling war stories, and gambling away anything that wasn’t bolted down. Clay had always assumed that folk who ventured into the Containment Zone were like old fashioned prospectors, looking to make it big then head back into civilization with a fat paycheck in hand, but the reality was that most of the people out here—other than the company mercs—never wanted to return to civilization.

Out here was freedom. No debt or credit. No taxes. No laws, other than the cardinal commandment: Keep What You Kill.

Clay could see the appeal of it. You put in the work, you gained an instant, tangible reward. But he and Joe and Alex hadn’t come here to get back on their feet. They’d come to kill a Dungeon Lord, and they weren’t going to manage that by playing it safe.

So they treated their time in the Containment Zone as though it were a military deployment. Six days a week, from sunup to sundown, they were outside the wire.

They became familiar with the lay of the land and the habits of the free roaming monsters. They stocked up on gold and hauled in as much loot as they could carry. All the while, they kept their ears open for anything more on Katotes. Neither the Wilfords or their friends seemed to know much more than the rumors Roy Lee was trying to spread, but Joe spent plenty of time in the Yacht Club supposedly digging for info anyway. Clay did his fair share of asking around as well, always in the most general way possible to avoid suspicion, but that turned up a whole lot of nothing.

By week four, they’d moved out of the tent and into the “Cans”—a set of metal shipping crates, stacked three high, and all interconnected by a series of rickety metal catwalks and rusted ladders. The cans had all been refurbished and insulated against the cold nights. Most had heaters, small AC units, and even satellite dishes—which pirated just about any show imaginable. Still no indoor plumbing, though. But the public showers worked well enough. Sure, the women’s had some peep holes cut into the cubicles just like the bathroom in the saloon, but that was solved easily enough by Clay standing guard outside while Alex showered.

The Cans came with a hefty price tag, which was why they were mostly inhabited by the long-haulers and the old-weeds, but thanks to their grueling efforts, the Jaegers had coin to burn. Most of the loot from their expeditions, they sold at the Liberty General Store or bartered to other folks in camp, but every now and then, one of them found something they could use.

Joe kept the strength-enhancing gauntlets and eventually turned up an unenchanted set of spiked pauldrons that almost matched, replacing his scuffed hockey pads with the pair. A set of Skeletal Warboots—bulky black kicks studded with human bones—beefed up Joe’s constitution and allowed him to trigger the War Charge ability once per day. When activated, he could cover fifty feet in the blink of an eye and hit like a raging bull. Then, for coverage, Joe also bartered for a big ol’ 44 Magnum revolver, which he wore low on one hip like some old-western cowboy. He even managed to score one of those leather belts with the loops for loose cartridges. When he was fully geared up, he looked like a cross between a redneck and death metal singer.

“Now all I need is a holster for Bertha,” Joe said, hanging the chainsaw down his back, then whipping it over his shoulder like he was drawing it from a scabbard. The bar got hung up on his pauldron spikes. “Eh, Bertha might be a hip carry. The next thing we kill with one of those anime-sized greatswords, I’m gonna see if it comes with a sheathe she can fit in.”

Clay kept the cobra ring, not only because it was fun being as fast as Alex for once, but because the Dexterity and Speed bonuses also translated into getting off faster, more accurate shots. He kind of fell in love with a scalemail cuirass, the Cinderscale, that offered +2 to Strength, +1 to Constitution, and a passive +18% Fire Resistance Bonus. He couldn’t part with it when it came time to sell.

“Looks hot on you,” Alex said the first time he tried it on.

He snorted. “I’m sure that’ll strike fear into the heart of a Dungeon Lord.”

“No, you look like a total badass warlord,” she said. “The sexiness boost is just a fringe benefit…” She tugged his face down to her level for a kiss. “…for me.”

During their second week grinding, Clay also picked up a Lesser Wand of Inferno. It did dick in the way of melee damage, but it could cast eight Inferno Lances per day. The thing was basically a rechargeable handheld rocket launcher that could fit in your pocket. Watching an Inferno Lance blast rusted-out cars to bits, it was no wonder magical weapons were outlawed by the government.

The best item by far, however, was the unassuming monocle stowed away in Clay’s pocket. He’d picked it up off the charred corpse of a particularly powerful Rothag they’d found barricaded inside a dilapidated Denny’s. The golden frame, connected to a gold chain as thin as thread, contained a piece of crystal-clear glass with a small symbol etched onto its surface. Monocle of True Seeing. It was indestructible as far as they could tell, and although it didn’t have any immediate combat applications, it was invaluable.

For the hundredth time since finding it, Clay placed the monocle over his eye and glanced down at his hand. With a thought, an overlay appeared.

                                                                           ╠═╦╬╧╪

Clay Jaeger

Level: 0

Race: Human

Class: Unassigned

Alignment: Neutral

Exp: 0 Exp; to next level: 440

Available Characteristic Points: 0

Health: 118/118

H-Regen / 5 Sec: 0

Magick: 120/120

Magick-Regen / 5 Sec: 0

Stats:

· Strength: 14 (12 + 2 item bonus)

· Constitution: 12 (11 + 1 item bonus)

· Dexterity: 15 (13 + 2 item bonus)

· Intelligence: 13

Attributes:

· Armor Rating: 34

· Melee Attack Damage: 39

· Ranged Attack Damage: 55

· Spell Damage: 76

· Movement Rate: +4%

· Critical Hit Chance: 6.5%

· Critical Hit Damage: +57.5%

Active Effects:

· None

Player Special Skills:

· None

                                                                                ╠═╦╬╧╪

Being as inconspicuous as possible, he’d compared himself to some of the other folks loitering around Camp Liberty, including Alex, Joe, and the Wilford brothers. A base stat of ten seemed to be the standard for the adult human, while a score of twenty was gold-medal, Olympic athlete caliber. Joe had scored a nine on Intelligence, which made so much sense, and led to several one-sided arguments about the Monocle’s accuracy. Starting out with ten as the baseline, though, meant that a boost of even a few Characteristic Points could make a tremendous difference in ability, strength, or speed.

Unfortunately, Clay had noticed that no matter what he did—no matter how many monsters he killed—there didn’t seem to be a way to gain any experience at all.

Level 0 with 0 experience points was the fate of everyone in Camp Liberty, save for the Incants. At least, that was the word on the street. Clay hadn’t managed to get close enough to Cassidy Morgan, the Hexblade Crusader, or the other two local Incants, to see what kind of stats they were working with under the hood.

“Stop fussing around with that thing,” Alex said across the can from him. “I’m starting to think you might be developing a complex. Pretty sure your stats haven’t changed since the last time you looked.”

Clay glanced up at her and caught a glimpse of her stats as well. His eyes were immediately drawn to the single item listed under Active Effects: Poisoned, Effect Ongoing.

That was a reminder he could’ve done without.

He forced a smile, hoping it looked nonchalant, and tucked the lens back into his pocket.

“You’re one to talk about complexes,” he said matter-of-factly, “Miss Can’t Put The Ridiculous Ninja Flail Down.”

Alex was wearing a pair of Kote—samurai-style armored sleeves—that reinforced her Constitution and Strength, a boost she badly needed to wield the odd weapon in her hands. A kusarigama, she called it, but it looked like someone had taken a log chain and attached a kama at one end and the head of a morning star to the other. Even more so, since the weapon had a jagged rune set into the spiked flail head that dealt flame damage on impact.

“I don’t care what you think, I like it.” She sank back into a cat stance, taking most of the weight off her front leg, then gave the flail a kick to start it swinging. “It’s like Weapons Day at the dojo meets Medieval Warfare XV.”

Clay grinned at her and rolled his eyes. She had always loved Weapons Day. He’d always brushed off those classes—for him, MMA was the way. That or firearms. After all, how often in the real world would you ever need to know how to use a battle axe or a flail? A bullet beat a melee weapon every time. Except maybe in the Containment Zone, he had to begrudgingly admit.

“That chain is twice as long as you are tall,” he noted with a cocked eyebrow.

“Not if I do this.” She whipped the extra chain around her arms and rose into a crane stance. “Come at me, Clay-san.”

“Not on your life, Crazy-san.” He pulled a pencil stub from his pocket and flicked it at her. With one swing of the flail, she knocked it across the shipping container. Her aim was getting better every day she used the weapon. “Although I might take a go at you from twenty yards out with my magical kablooey stick.”

“Chicken,” she taunted. “With this long of a chain, I can reach you from here. Your long arms are no match for me now.”

Clay’s grin widened. He hadn’t seen her this energized or happy since… before everything had happened.

“You’re in an awfully good mood,” he said.

“What can I say.” She shrugged. “We’re almost there.” The chain jangled as Alex straightened up and let the flail drop to the floor of the shipping container. It hit with a wall-shaking boom.

Their downstairs neighbor cussed and banged on the ceiling, but Alex didn’t pay him any mind.

“We’ve got the gear, we know the terrain, and we’ve honed our monster-fighting skills. You even got that guy to draw you a map of the first level of the Marriott.” Alex thumbed the kama blade, then started winding up the chain. “We’re ready. Don’t you feel it?”

“Yeah.” He stood up and stretched, idly running his hand over his front pocket. He could feel the crude folded map of the Marriott within. She was right. They’d done the work. They had the gear. And they had a plan. But there was still something about this operation that put him on edge in a way that none of their other runs outside the wire had. He’d had this same feeling back in Jordan, right before the Blind Oracle had launched an ambush that cost his battalion a hundred men. “That doesn’t mean we should just sprint in, guns and wands and hell-flails blazing.”

“First off, it’s a kusarigama,” she said, setting it on the worn-out futon. “And, second, I wasn’t advocating for running in like chickens with our heads cut off. I just…” She let out a disgusted sigh. “All of this is my fault. I just want it over with. All this wait and see—it’s such bullshit. I’m ready to move on. I want us to have a life again.” Her voice broke, and her chin rumpled. “You, you should be allowed to have a life again.”

“Hey, hey, stop with the crazy talk.” Clay crossed the container in two quick strides and swiped away the first tear he’d seen on her face in more than two years. God, she’d been so strong this whole time, going to hell and back and keeping a positive face even during the times he hadn’t been able to hold it together. Why was she breaking down now? “We’ve got a life—I’ve got a life. Right here with you. We’re doing this. Together. Everything is fine. None of what happened was your fault.”

“Oh yeah? Not losing the house or your business or our wedding rings—”

“None of it.” Clay tipped her face up so she would see how serious he was. “That was all just stuff. Screw it. I’d get rid of it all again in a heartbeat. I’d rather be in this shipping container with you than anywhere in the whole world without you.”

“What if it’s not stuff next time? What if it’s you? Or Joe? If something happens to you…”

Clay kissed her to stop the morbid speculations. “Babe, I used to put my life on the line for complete strangers because I believed it was the right thing to do. Do you honestly think I wouldn’t sacrifice anything and everything for the most important person in my whole world?”

“I don’t want you to sacrifice anything else for me. I want this over with, and for once I want everything to work out just like we planned.” She sucked in a long breath, then blew it out. Her tears were gone, the brave face was back. “It’s got to.”

“It will,” Clay promised.